


Bramble

by dogtit



Category: Maleficent (2014)
Genre: Gen, Slight spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-30
Updated: 2014-06-30
Packaged: 2018-02-06 21:22:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1872951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dogtit/pseuds/dogtit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Godmother, Aurora calls her. Maleficent will let her have that. Why not. She only has to put up with it for a few more months.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bramble

She doesn’t know when she slipped into a nap; she is an immortal (guardian, protector, sentinel)  _queen_  of the Moors, and going without sleep for weeks at a time is child’s play. Granted, Maleficent will concede that most times she is not chasing after a child with too much energy to spare.  _  
_

Perhaps bringing Aurora into the heart of Faerieland was an unwise decision. Perhaps interacting with her beyond a silent shadow of necessity was as well. It isn’t out of good will, or altruism; Stefan has already ripped that feeling out of her along with her wings, scattered what little goodness she had then to the winds. No, she preserves Aurora simply for her own gain; what use is there in making a grandiose curse and letting the cursed one fall to their deaths or starve in the company of disguised fae?

There is no satisfaction to be had in Stefan grieving over a corpse. Grieving over a living, breathing body forever in stasis, however, leaves her positively  _giggling_.

Or it should. Lately when she thinks of Aurora and spinning wheels a sharp lance of  _fear_  laces through her, burning like iron in her blood and bones. Maleficent does not care to dwell on it, won’t let herself dwell. Diaval would never let her hear the end of it. 

For a moment, she stares through the canopy of the tree she chose to make her perch for the eve while Aurora had played in the mud with snorting trolls and the chimes of wisps. The wild blue of the summer sky has given way to deep indigo, a blanket of starlight enveloping a fat moon. She sits, stares—wondering when she allowed herself to doze off in the presence of a human again (and she lifts a hand out of some unwanted paranoia, feeling her horns all around to make certain that they are still there and whole and untouched by theft)—and almost starts when she realizes the barely-there weight of her charge. 

Aurora sleeps against her, curled on Maleficent's front, soft cheek pillowed on the harsh ridges of her collarbones. Her hair is wild and smells of clean human sweat, tangled and greasy with clotted mudwater and gnarled with sticks. There is dirt under her nails, a dried layer of cracking mud trailing up to her ankles. Her lips are smeared purple with blackberry juice. 

A rose among briars. Quaint. To her credit, the beastie doesn’t  _drool_. 

The only flaw, hygiene aside, is the small knot of worry collecting between her thick brows. Maleficent has never seen her as anything less than  _perky_ , almost inhuman with how little she feels fear. Perhaps it was the drawback of the fae gift of eternal happiness. Or, perhaps the fae gift had escape clauses of its own. 

It doesn’t vanish until Maleficent sets a palm over the back of her head. She just sets it there, doesn’t say a word, but the tension flows out of the child’s body. Something swells in her chest, something gold and bright like magic—not the green embers that burn in the core of her cracked and blackened heart—and a knot builds in her throat. 

There is always, always, that instinct to safeguard those that cannot safeguard themselves. It’s not altruism, it’s not that she cares, really. It’s instinct. That’s all. That’s all that moves her hand in slow, careful strokes, picking out sticks and brambles and ignoring the smile that graces the child’s face.

Godmother, Aurora calls her. Maleficent will let her have that. Why not. She only has to put up with it for a few more months.

Aurora’s hand fists the fabric of her gown, over her heart, like she owns it.


End file.
